


(Skipping) Stones and Town

by PaigeTurner



Series: Bullet Points [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Baking, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Cinnamon Roll Bucky Barnes, Domestic, F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeTurner/pseuds/PaigeTurner
Summary: Post Civil War, Pre Infinity War. Natasha takes Bucky out of Wakanda and on a tour of Europe while running from the past and towards an uncertain future.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Series: Bullet Points [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/645629
Comments: 15
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely the slowest burn I've ever written. They don't technically even kiss. So don't complain about the lack of kissing. It's a different kind of intimacy.

65.7356, 24.5657

He hunched over the scarred desk. His brow furrowed and knuckles blanched as he gripped the tooth-marked pencil. Its sharpened tip hovered over the paper.

“Everything alright?”

He jumped, spring loaded, at the sound of her voice. 

She blinked sharply, the wry smile toying at her mouth widening. 

He drew and released a tremulous breath before he answered. “I'm just trying to remember.”

Her expression softened, sarcastically cocked eyebrows returning to neutral, half smirk fading to slightly pursed lips that marked concern on her face. “Remember what?”

“Anything.” He looked back at the blank page. “Everything. As far back as I can. What's the first thing I remember that was real?” He looked to her as though she might have an answer.

A little crease appeared, just barely off center between her eyebrows. “Maybe start with yesterday. Work backwards until it starts to get fuzzy.”

“Yesterday,” he whispered.

“You woke up,” she prompted. 

“I woke up. Made my bed. Got dressed. I had the last one of those muffins you made for breakfast.” He smiled without showing his teeth. “Cup of coffee. Brushed my teeth. You were gone most of the day. Errands, you said. I tried to clean the place up a little.” He gestured to the apartment. He looked at the couch. “I read for a while. But the book was about a man who can't remember anything except how to kill people, and I--” he flinched and swallowed hard, “I didn't like it very much.”

She glanced at the bookshelf. “It was popular, I didn't….” She shook her head. “What else did you do yesterday?”

“Eighty push-ups. Two hundred squats. Tried to nap, but couldn't. Sat at this desk,” he rapped on the surface, “for three hours with my eyes closed. Disassembling and reassembling a weapon that isn't here.”

“James.” Her voice came out so faint, she seemed far away.

“Then I did the dishes and mopped the kitchen. And when you came home, you'd bought milk and we had French toast for dinner.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “You didn't eat much. Didn't even finish one piece.”

Motion registered in his peripheral vision as she shifted her weight.

“We’re moving again soon, aren't we?” He looked up at her. “The errands, the lack of appetite, you bought hair dye too, it means we won't be here much longer.”

She nodded once.

“I’ll start packing.”

Packing didn’t take long. There was an inverse proportion between the number of people trying to kill a person and the amount of attachments allowed to that person. 

Cleaning took longer. Natasha emerged from the bathroom wearing a hairnet and gloves, reeking of bleach. She frowned and reached for the broom. “May I?”

He sighed and let the handle fall into her hand. “I guess I’ll start in the kitchen?”

“If you want to do the floors, just--” she swept a small section of the floor. “Like this? Follow the grain of the wood.” She offered the broom back. 

“I’ll just work in the kitchen. Unless there’s a specific way you want the fridge cleaned? Should I scrub the shelves in a counterclockwise motion?” He gestured with his hand, though he moved it clockwise.

Natasha pursed her lips and said nothing.

When they left, he wiped the doorknobs clean. Not a trace of them remained. No fingerprints. No stray hairs. 

And they moved on.  
***  
49.1132747 ,-0.4510887

The next place — the fifth, or was it sixth, since they’d left Wakanda — was in France. It had once been a barn, converted into a cottage with a single bedroom upstairs, in what had probably been the hayloft. He slept in the former hayloft, his mattress on the floor — no bed frame. He unpacked his clothes into a dresser with cracks in the wood and drawers that stuck. 

The main floor had a sitting room, a kitchen with a gas powered range, and a shoe-box-sized bathroom. 

But there was a garden, beds overgrown with weeds, rickety trellises with paint peeling in the sun. A shed he thought had to be haunted crouched at the edge of the property, its walls holding up all that remained of a former fence. The trees surrounded them. The town was close enough to walk to. 

They scavenged a threadbare couch with what might’ve been a bloodstain but was probably red wine and a coffee table warped from water damage. They stocked the kitchen with chipped and mismatched dishes. 

***  
The nightmare began with a scream that might have been his own. He ran through the darkness, unsure if he was chasing or being chased. The sharp sound of gunshots peppered the night. The wind howled. The low roar of a train grew louder and louder. Pain split his whole left side. 

Cold. Cold so intense it burned his bones, made his teeth ache. Cold that faded into numbness.

Blood caked in the knuckles of the metal arm. Sweat dripped down his face, matting his hair to his skin. His chest burned with the strain of breathing. And there was so much blood. Smell of smoke. He groaned in his sleep. His arm still ached when he awoke. 

Sunlight filtered into the loft. He laid on his back and watched dust motes swirl and dance in the pale beams of light. Clamminess settled on his skin. The smell of coffee wafted up the stairs and conspired with his full bladder to pry him from the bed. 

“Good morning,” he called in the general direction of the kitchen as he stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. 

***  
A cup of coffee steamed on the counter; he leaned across and hooked his finger through the handle. Natasha shot him a glare as he dragged the mug towards himself. He stared back as he spooned sugar into the cup. Her eyes reminded him of someone he couldn’t remember. 

“How’d you sleep?”

He froze, halfway to his fridge. “Uh. Fine.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow and picked another mug out of the cupboard. “Mm hmm.”

He took out the cream and shook the carton gently. “I had a dream,” James admitted. “A nightmare.” He let the cream trickle into his coffee, the slow swirl of light and dark. 

She nodded. 

As he put the cream away, he inventoried the refrigerator. “Omelette?”

Natasha shrugged. “If you make it, I’ll eat it.”

“If you eat, you have to do the dishes,” he countered. 

“Fair enough.” She leaned back and sipped coffee. “What do you dream about?”

“Running.” He set out vegetables on the counter. “Falling.” He laid out a cutting board, and Natasha handed him a knife. “Killing.” He paused. Their fingers brushed as he took the handle. She met his eyes. “Dying.”

He played the moment over and over in his mind, barely focusing on the onions and mushrooms as he sliced them. He neither spoke nor looked her way while he cooked. As soon as the food was ready, he took his plate upstairs to the loft. He stood by the window and moved his hand slowly through the sunlight. The smudge on his fingertip might have been her fingerprint. 

He rubbed his hand on his shirt and looked again. The metal gleamed. Spotless. He picked up his fork.  
***

The couch creaked when he sat. He shifted his weight. He stood and used his hands to push the lumpy cushions around. It made a weird, metallic pop when he sat back down. 

“Was that the couch?” Natasha called from the kitchen. 

“This thing is awful. How do you sleep here?” He wiggled again, the couch squeaking and groaning in response. 

“I sleep fine, stop messing with it.” She came into the doorway to glare at him. There were bubbles of dish soap on her wrist. The sunlight reflected tiny rainbows in each one. 

“It’s lumpy.”

“It’s fine.”

He bounced slightly on the cushions.

“You’re going to break it,” Natasha warned. 

“Pretty sure it was already broken.”

They both jumped, heads swiveled in the direction of the road. Ears strained. 

“It was an engine backfiring. Motorcycle, I think,” Natasha said after a moment. 

He nodded and rose to his feet. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Not by the road, don’t worry.” He slipped on his jacket and pulled gloves out of the pockets.

***

The couch creaked loudly, then cracked as Natasha sat up. It sagged beneath her hip. “Shit,” she whispered. She stood and turned on the lamp. The middle of the couch dipped deeply. She reached out to pull the cushions off.

“Are you okay?”

Natasha whirled around, hands coming up defensively. James took a small step back.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” She chided shrilly. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. He tilted his head, looking past her at the couch. “It broke.”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not sure if I woke up because it broke or it broke because I woke up. I was--” She drew a calming breath. “It was just a dream.”

“What did you dream about?”

Natasha shivered. “Running. I’m less afraid of what I was running from than what I might run into. The monsters behind me all have familiar faces.”

“The devil you know,” he mused. “Go upstairs, try to get some more sleep. I’ll take care of this.” He waved towards the couch. 

***

Natasha’s eyes widened when she came down the stairs. The old couch was gone. In its place stood another, with soft brown leather upholstery. James was sprawled over it, his leg hanging beyond the armrest, his mouth open, snoring. 

She smiled, slightly bewildered, and went to the kitchen. 

He wandered in just as she was sliding pancakes onto a plate. “You cooked.”

“I have to admit, James, I’m impressed. How -- with no money, in the middle of nowhere, at three am, and in a FIAT -- did you manage to replace the couch? You don’t even speak French.”

“I didn’t even take the car,” he replied. He grinned. 

Natasha started to giggle and couldn’t stop. She pushed the plate towards him. “You.” She handed him a cup of coffee. “That’s some shit Barton would pull.” She got her laughter under control and poured herself some coffee. 

***

They walked to the lake after breakfast. 

“Will you trade rooms with me?” James asked. 

She gave him a quizzical look. 

“The new couch is really comfortable. I slept pretty well this morning. You can have the loft, more privacy.” 

“You’re too tall for that couch,” she replied. 

He shrugged. “I like it.”

“We can trade.” Natasha knelt and examined a stone. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. Her fingers slid over its surfaces. She stood, and cocked her arm back, and threw. The stone skipped three times before it sank. 

He uttered a faintly impressed grunt.

Her eyes scanned the ground for another stone. “We should stop in town before we head back. Pick up something for dinner.”

She picked up a rock, tossing it and catching it with the same hand. She squared off with the lake. 

“Could you teach me how to do that?”

She smiled. “Sure.” She offered him the stone.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do it now.” James shook his head. 

“I’m here. You’re here. The lake is here. The rock is here. No time like the present.”

He nodded once, and her fingertips touched his palm as she passed the stone to his outstretched hand. Skin against skin. A little chill raised the hairs on his forearm. The sun seemed to pass behind a cloud. He gripped the rock tightly. It was warm from her hand.

“The rock should be flat and smooth. Not too heavy,” Natasha said in Russian. She scanned the ground for another suitable example. “You’ll throw side-arm, not overhand, not underhand.”

“This one?” He pointed to a rock with the toe of his boot. 

She scooped it up and continued to explain in Russian, the flick of the wrist, the angle at which the flat side of the rock should hit the water, the force of the throw — not too hard, not too light.

He nodded and mimed the gestures as she described them. They each squared off to the lake, stone in hand. Hers skipped three times. His skipped seven.

“You’re a natural.”

***

“Where’d you learn to speak Russian?” He asked over dinner.

“Russia.” Natasha answered without hesitation, or even a glance at him. 

He snorted. “Okay.” The tines of his fork scraped against his plate. “Then when did you learn, or how or—“

“I was born there. I grew up there. Got my education, most of it.”

“So you’re Russian.”

“I was.”

His brow furrowed. “How’d you know I’d understand it?”

“I read your file.” It was true, she had. That wasn’t really how she’d known, but it wasn’t quite a lie. More of a non sequitur. “You spent a fair amount of time there.”

“They used to serve this pumpernickel rye bread, so dark it was nearly black. Heavy enough to fill your stomach for hours.” He smiled. “It was one of those things you either love or hate. I loved it.”

“That wasn’t in your file.” 

He shrugged and offered a crooked smile. “You can’t learn everything about someone from a file, no matter how thick.”  
***

“The Winter Soldier will train you in firearms at every range. You will not disappoint.” Madame B’s stern voice cast a shadow over the silent girls.

A ripple of fear passed through them—girls straightening or shrinking in their seats. A whiff of perspiration hung in the air. Natalya remained perfectly motionless. Perfectly disciplined. 

Whispers were traded over dinner that night. He is a monster. He is a spectre. He was once human but no more. He has no heart, a mechanism pumps his blood. He doesn’t eat. He eats the girls who disappoint. He doesn’t sleep. His eyes glow red. He is страшилище.

How silly the other girls were. Natalya knew, she understood, that there was no greater evil than man. The most terrifying thing he could be was a man, and that was precisely what he was. She’d faced men before. 

They were marched into the yard at first light. Cold as it was, they wore skirts and short sleeves. None dared shiver.

The gravel crunched beneath his boots. Natalya squared her shoulders; her chin rose just millimeters. She met his gaze.

His eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she’d ever seen— somewhere between sky and smoke, deep as the sea and as distant as the moon. Her pulse quickened.

He was a man. Nothing more, but nothing less either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles with his past and present, while Natasha frets about the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of hate that we have Thaddeus Ross and Everett Ross both playing significant roles in Captain America: Civil War, but this one is Thaddeus, for the record.

“Hey, thanks for the heads up.” Natasha cradled the phone against her cheek. “We’re safe.”

“I’m glad,” Steve replied. “What is Ross thinking?”

“He’s thinking about results. He’s afraid of you.”

Steve snorted. “That seems unlikely.”

“You don’t know fear like I do. I could smell it through his cologne.” Natasha drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. “I hear there’s a serious snake problem below fiftieth street.”

“Well, that’s someone else’s problem.”

“It always has the potential to become our problem. I’ll call you next week.”

“Sooner if there’s news.” Steve disconnected without waiting for a response.

She looked up to find James standing in the doorway. 

“How’s Steve?”

“Worried,” she replied.

“Should I be worried?”

“Secretary Ross brought a super soldier onto the task force.” She clenched her jaw and shook her head slightly. “He used to be British Intelligence, he still has connections in England.”

“That’s why we left in such a hurry,” he guessed. 

Natasha nodded. 

“He’s dangerous?”

She picked up her phone again. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to find video footage from Harlem. She turned the screen towards James. “That’s him.” She pointed. 

His eyes went wide. “What the--”

“Both of those guys used to be regular people. The green one is Banner. He’s an ally. The other one…. They call him Abomination.”

“And he’s hunting us.”

“He won’t find us,” Natasha said, a little too quickly. 

James narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t know that. What were you telling Steve about snakes?”

“Hydra. Some activity in South America. Not close enough to us to be a concern. Apparently not close to Steve either.”

“But they’re still out there.”

“Cut off one head,” she said with a shrug. “It’s late, and no one is going to find us tonight.” She stood. “Sweet dreams.”

***

He woke just before dawn and dressed without turning on a light. The light from the living room seeped through the cracks between the floorboards upstairs. He stepped over the creaky floorboard on his way into the kitchen.

He made a pot of coffee. In a skillet, he put a pat of butter and the rest of the onion. He diced up the leftover pork from their dinner and tossed it in the pan, scrambling in an egg. He added cream and sugar to his cup and poured the fresh coffee over the mixture. 

He ate and washed the dishes before heading outside. As the sun came up, he set to work pulling weeds. 

Sweat rolled down his face, matting his hair to his skin. Dirt caked in the knuckles of his left hand and under the nails of his right hand. The smell of earth and grass and honeysuckle hung in the air. Bird song and insect buzz drifted through the trees. 

“What are you doing?”

His head snapped up and he whirled to face Natasha. “Um, gardening.”

A smile crossed her lips and she shook her head slightly. 

He looked around. Dying weeds sprawled across the grass. Damp earth darkened the knees of his pants. “I just thought, we’ve got this space. We could plant some vegetables. I’m not sure I’ve got any kind of green thumb, but I’m willing to try.”

“James.” She picked her way across the yard and sighed at the mess. “That’s a lot of work, especially considering that we won’t be here long enough to harvest anything.”

The warm light died in his eyes. “Who asked you?” He grabbed a handful of weeds and threw them into the bin forcefully. 

She winced, her face scrunching in. “I—“

“Who the fuck asked you? 

“It’s just—“

“You gotta shit all over everything I do.” He kicked the plastic bin and it tipped, spilling weeds over the ground. 

Natasha slowly backed away. 

“Why are you always such a bitch?” 

“You know what, it’s fine. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we won't have to move before the plants come up.” She raised her hands, palms out. “It’s a nice idea. Fresh vegetables.”

James wiped his hands against his thighs, smearing dirt into the fabric of his pants. “Why’d you take me out of Wakanda anyway?”

“Once T’Challa decided to bring them into the limelight, it wasn’t safe for you there anymore.” 

“What do you care? You don’t even like me.” His eyes scanned her posture. “You’re afraid of me.”

Natasha forced her hands down to her sides. “You’re yelling. Kicking things. Cursing at me. I think I’m justified in being a bit wary.”

His fists unclenched. He pressed his shoulders down. He took a step towards her, his shadow falling over her. “Why you? I’m pretty sure Steve has other friends.”

She craned her neck to look up into his eyes. “I volunteered.” She turned sharply and strolled back into the house. 

With a heavy sigh, he began gathering up the pulled weeds. She was gone when he went inside. A note on the kitchen table with a single word — Town.

***

He showered quickly and then, exhausted, he stretched out on the couch.

Thick rubbery straps pressed into his skin. Sweat gathered beneath them. There was a pinch where the buckles cinched tight. Pain built slowly like the breaking dawn, brighter and brighter until it was blinding. 

He screamed. 

Blankets entangled his legs. No straps. 

A broad beam of light fell into the room. Soft. Warm. Yellow-orange, like the flesh of a mango. A small silhouette cast a long shadow. 

“James.”

He inhaled deeply, sniffling. Tears escaped the corners of his eyes. “No.” His voice cracked. 

“James.”

He sobbed. Quiet footsteps crossed the creaking floorboards. A hand pressed against his chest. Palm flat on his skin. Fingers splayed across the vibranium shoulder. He followed the hand to an arm, a body that he wrapped himself around, buried his face in. 

When the tears ran out, and his shuddering breaths became even, he pulled back. He looked at Natasha blankly. “I had another nightmare.” 

She nodded. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier. I’m sorry I made you—wary.” That was the word she had chosen. He looked down at her hand, still resting on his bare chest.

“I accept your apology, and I forgive you.” Her fingers curled. “I’m sorry I’m always such a bitch.”

“You’re not. I didn’t — I didn’t mean that. I was just mad.”

“I brought a peace offering, regardless.” She smiled. “Come into the kitchen.”

***

He peered at the dark brown lump on the countertop. “Now what?”

“Knead it.”

His hand fluttered over the surface. His lip curled into a sort of sneer. “How?”

Natasha chuckled. “It won’t bite.” She took his hand and gently placed it on the surface of the dough. “Just like this.” 

His heart raced as she pressed their fingers into it, pulling towards then pushing away with the palm of her hand. 

“It’s sticky.” He pulled his hand from her grasp and looked at it. 

She smiled and guided him back to the task. “That’s okay. Keep working it.”

His brow furrowed as he prodded the dough. “How do I know when it’s enough?”

“It should be smooth and uniform, no sticky patches or streaks of flour. It’s okay to push a little harder, James, you won’t hurt it.”

He pressed harder. “I hope it tastes like I remember.”

She sprinkled flour over his fingers. He wore a plastic glove over the metal hand. 

“I think that’s good,” Natasha said. She stepped back and picked up a large bowl. “Plop it in here.”

“Plop.” The word popped briskly off his lips as he nestled the dough into the dish. “Now what?”

Natasha set the bowl on the counter and rolled the ball inside to grease all of its surface. “Now we wait.” She draped a tea towel over it with a flourish. 

“I never knew bread was so much work.” He watched Natasha wash her hands and waited for his turn at the sink. “How long?”

“Until it doubles in size.”

“How long will that take?”

She glanced at the thermometer by the sink and then at the clock. “An hour or so.”

“What do we do now?”

She laughed, throwing her head back. “I’m going to curl up on the couch and read. Surely you can entertain yourself.”

James browsed their shelf, settling on a worn copy of Stardust Natasha had purchased at a thrift store in Manchester. He sat at the opposite end of the couch from her. 

He read slowly, hunched over, pressing the spine of the book into his thigh, following the letters with his fingertip. At first, the words just seemed to drift through his mind, but gradually they became thoughts. He was able to focus on the story and not just the act of reading one letter after another. His neck began to ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, bared his teeth in a suppressed yawn, and stretched; his back popped between the shoulder blades. He glanced down the couch. 

Natasha seemed absorbed in a thick, hardbound tome with no visible title. 

He glanced at the clock again. “Should we?”

At her nod, he bounded up and into the kitchen. 

The dough had risen enough to create a bulge under the cloth. James hung the tea towel over the handle of the oven. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Now what?”

They punched down the dough and kneaded it again and split it into two pans. 

Once the dough was in the oven, they settled back into their respective spaces on the couch. The little apartment filled with the aroma of baking bread. Warm and familiar. 

He picked up his book, turned it over in his hands, then laid it aside. “Read to me?”

She looked up from her book and smiled, baring the barest bit of her teeth. “This?” She nodded to the book in her lap, her finger tucked between the pages to hold her place.

“Anything, really. Please?”

She cleared her throat. 

It was poetry. Some anthology of Russian poetry. 

James his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. A little town nestled on the eastern side of the Ural Mountains. Wooden floors so cold they numbed his feet. Parchment colored walls that rose to ornate buttresses, and faded scenes painted on the arched ceilings. Voices echoed through the halls. He carried a gun. Two dozen girls, quiet as church mice and no taller than his chest, followed him. The smallest and youngest had braids the color of autumn leaves. 

James opened his eyes. “Natalia?”

Natasha flinched, but she didn’t respond. She stopped reading. Tension braced across her shoulders. 

“I guess none of Steve’s other friends know a recipe for black bread.”

Her gaze left the page and found his face. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re trying to help me,” he said. 

“Trying,” Natasha echoed.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please read some more?”

He watched her eyes scan over the page, finding the place where she’d left off. She began again, her voice softer. He shifted nearer to her on the couch, not quite touching, their bodies separated by an intangible rime. He took care not to disturb it as he leaned back again. He closed his eyes, a crease between his brows, and chased the memories sparked by her words and the smell of the bread. 

“Желание.” The word struck him like a bullet. None of the words that had come before mattered. 

“No!” He flailed. The edge of his palm struck her nose, and the hand scrabbled into place covering her mouth. “Don’t.” 

Her book slid to the floor with a thud. She pressed her back into the cushions. 

He panted. Air dragged heavy through his mouth, drying his throat. He leaned into her, hand clamped tight over her lips. 

She met his eyes. Blood trickled over the gleaming metal, rivulets winding around his knuckles, seeping between his fingers. 

“Don’t.” His voice was low, forceful. His eyes were wide

She reached up slowly and put her hand over his. She tapped the back of his hand with her first two fingers. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. A heartbeat. His arm relaxed, and he let her remove his hand from her mouth. 

She drew a deep breath before she could speak. “It’s okay, James.”

He stared at the waterfall of crimson coating her lips and chin. Horror dawned over his face as he shook his head. “It’s not.” He slowly rose from the couch. 

She gingerly touched her nose. 

He glanced her way, then positioned himself in the doorway to the kitchen with his back to her. “Is it broken?”

She didn’t answer.

He got a clean dish towel from the drawer and tossed it to her from across the room. 

She pinched her nose in the cloth, leaning forward. When she looked up, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a wanted fugitive is injured, there aren't a lot of options available.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for sexual harassment (off-screen, barely) and violence. And gore. 
> 
> A short but fairly intense chapter

He ran. His feet pounded against the ground. His heart pounded in his chest. The setting sun burned the sky blood red. Blinding pain ripped through him as a scream split the air. The hard ground greeted him. 

He closed his eyes. The pain was dull when he opened them. Amber sun had been replaced by blue-white fluorescence. Hard ground had been replaced by a hard bed. The smell of the forest, earthen and dark, had been replaced by sharp antiseptic and chlorine bleach. 

He groaned and closed his eyes again. He drew a few deep breaths. His head throbbed. He opened his eyes, rolled onto his right side and gently pushed himself into a sitting position. He grunted loudly and grabbed his left knee. The pain made his stomach clench. 

“Shit.” His left leg was every color of bruised, spreading from just above his knee like an oil slick. His left shoulder didn’t look much better. The arm was gone and judging by the pain, it had torn off. He gathered the thin paper sheet around his waist and carefully slid off the cot. Putting weight on the leg was painful, but not impossible. He hobbled to the door. 

Another door greeted him directly across the hall. To his left, the hall seemed to open into a larger room. To his right, yet another door, this one slightly ajar. Light spilled out onto the hardwood floor. 

“No.” A man’s voice came from the open door at the end of the hall. “I don’t want your money. We both know you can’t very well go to the police if I were to--”

“Don’t.” That was Natasha’s voice. James limped towards the door, praying the floor didn’t creak. 

The man shouted something in...French? 

James winced at the sound of a slap. It was followed by a grunt, then a thud. He limped faster and shouldered the door open. A man lolled at his feet. Blood poured from his throat, color draining from his face. 

Natasha rolled to her side, facing the body. She brandished a bloody pen. Wide-eyed, she watched the man. He twitched briefly, then stilled. Her gaze shifted to James. Her face was spattered with blood. “Oh, you’re awake.”

“What just—“

“Get dressed, we’ve got to go.”

“Do I have clothes somewhere?” He gripped the sheet tighter. “And, um, what happened to my arm?”

“It’s with your clothes. In the trunk of the car. Down the street.” Her expression grew grimmer with each word. “In my defense, I didn’t think we’d be leaving in such a hurry.” She glanced down at the body. “He’s about your size.”

James grimaced. 

“He lives here, he must have clean clothes upstairs.” She glanced very pointedly at the paper sheet. “You’re going to attract a lot of attention walking down the street like that.”

He followed the hallway to a staircase. It looked like a lot of stairs. “Is there anyone else in this house?” he shouted.

“No.” Natasha’s voice sounded strained. 

He let go of the sheet and grabbed the railing. Climbing the stairs was arduous. His left knee couldn’t support his weight when it was bent, so he stepped up with his right, then brought his left foot onto the same step as his right, then up again. 

By the time he was dressed, his pain had reached agonizing levels. He stood at the top of the steps. Flinging himself over the railing seemed like a reasonable option. He sat down. He leaned on his hand, bent his elbow, and lowered his butt onto the top step. Thump, thump, thump.

A mechanical whine came from the room he hadn’t looked in earlier. 

He opened the door. “What are you doing?”

Natasha held a surgical saw. The dead man was splayed on a plastic tarp. One arm had been severed at the elbow. “There’s a crematorium behind us. His property backs up to the mortuary. Pieces will be easier to move.” She looked at him. “Can you help?”

“I don’t do that anymore,” he whispered.

“James?”

“Who is he, was he, and why did you kill him?”

“He’s the local doctor. He treated your injuries. He also recognized us. He would’ve called the hotline for the task force.” Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips pale, cracked and dry. The splatters of blood were now smears, and neither the blood nor her makeup quite concealed the bruises on either side of her nose. 

“How can I help?” 

“We need to get him dismantled and clean up the blood in the study.”

“You need to clean the blood off your face.”

She scoffed. “When it’s done.”

***  
The effort of dealing with the body had taken a toll. His entire left side throbbed. He limped slowly behind Natasha. “What the hell happened anyway?”

“You got hit by a car.”

She didn’t actually call him an idiot, but he heard it nonetheless. Her tone carried a lot. She helped him settle in the passenger seat. “You should rest,” she said in a gentler voice.

They passed nearly an hour in silence. He watched her check the mirrors again and again. She never glanced in his direction. “I guess you were right to be afraid of me.”

She blinked and lightly touched her cheek where the bruising fanned out under her eye. “You didn’t mean to.”

He snorted. “Does that make it heal faster? Or hurt less? Is your nose less broken because it was an accident?”

“It’s not broken, just bruised. The bread burned. I went after you and forgot about the oven. Probably lucky I didn’t burn the cottage down.” She chuckled dryly. “Though that might have been easier than cleaning it.”

He stared out the window, watching the countryside pass by in the darkness. He didn’t intend to doze off, but sleep overcame him. When he opened his eyes, the sun was rising. He yawned. 

“How’s your head?” she asked. 

“Attached?” He tilted it to one side and his neck cracked loudly. “Oof. It hurts. Where are we anyway?”

“A little east of Reims.” She sighed heavily. “Maybe halfway to Switzerland.”

“When was the last time you slept?” He studied her face a moment. The dark circles under her eyes weren’t just bruising. 

“We have to keep moving.” Her voice sounded flat.

“Did he hurt you?”

She checked the rear view mirror and didn’t respond.

“The doctor. I heard him say he didn’t want your money.”

“No. He wanted me to sleep with him. In exchange for his silence.”

James looked down at the doctor’s brown pinstripe pants and a white button-down shirt he hadn’t bothered to button. 

“I didn’t,” Natasha added. “In case you were wondering.”

“No, I figured that part out.” He frowned. “Why not?”

A muscle tensed in her jaw. Her eyes narrowed and her brow creased. 

“Stupid question,” he whispered. He cleared his throat. “I could drive for a while. You could rest and we could still keep moving.”

She pulled onto the shoulder. “Could you?”

“Arm’s in the trunk?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure if it was damaged.”

“Switzerland’s the goal?”

“For now. Just stay away from any major cities. We’re going to start seeing more traffic soon, so maybe try to find a road less travelled.” 

He rifled through the things in the trunk. Inside a half-zipped duffle bag, his arm rested on a pile of sloppily folded clothes. The rising sun gleamed off the metal. Dried blood crusted the knuckles. He raised it to his shoulder and shrugged. Something near under his shoulder blade popped as the arm locked into place. His knees buckled in pain. He scrabbled at the release until it clicked. The arm clattered to the ground. 

He panted, kneeling on the asphalt and clutching his shoulder. His eyes watered.

“James?” Natasha stood by the passenger door. 

“The arm seems okay.” He gasped out the words. “The shoulder not so much.”

She picked up the arm and tossed it into the car, slamming the trunk. She crouched next to him. “James, are you—“

“I’m not going to be able to drive without it.”

“It’s okay. Come on,” she said encouragingly. She reached for his good arm. He slipped it over her shoulders. 

He groaned as they stood. “I’m sorry.” He leaned against her. “You should’ve let me die.”

“Don’t say that.” She eased him back into the seat. “Don’t even think that.”

“I’ve caused so much pain.”

“You’re in so much pain,” Natasha corrected. She rifled through a bag in the back seat. “Here.” 

He held out his hand and she deposited a small white pill onto his palm. 

“Take that and sleep.”

“I deserve to suffer.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finally remembers

47.0652167,9.4796078

He eyed the building suspiciously. “This is it?”

“Beggars can't be choosers,” Natasha replied. “It’s furnished, it’s under budget, and we each get a bedroom. You can pick first.”

She got the door unlocked and flicked on the lights. There wasn’t much to carry in. It felt like they’d brought along less than usual. 

“I think that’s the bigger bedroom,” Natasha pointed to one of the doors.

James shrugged and opened the other one. He dropped his duffle onto the bed, and the mattress creaked in protest. “Furnished, but at what cost?” he muttered. 

He unzipped the bag, grabbed one end, and dumped it. Clothes, notebooks and little envelopes scattered. He picked up one of the envelopes. Seed packets. She’d brought the seeds for his garden. 

He carried it into the living room. 

Natasha stood in the darkened living room, staring at her phone. She glanced up with a frown. “We made the news.”

“What?” He rushed closer, peering over her shoulder at the screen.

“The doctor must have called it in before he talked to me.”

He sighed. “So should I not bother to unpack?”

She rubbed her forehead. “No. We’ll lay low here, in a few days, most of the attention will blow over.”

“It’s late,” he said quietly. “No one is going to find us tonight.”

***

James clenched and flexed his hand. He stared at it, rotating his wrist slowly.

“Does it hurt?” Natasha cocked her head, watching him.

He jumped at the sound of her voice, and looked down self consciously. “Not exactly. It’s more like...tension. That kinda off feeling, like your knuckles wanting to be cracked.” His hand dropped to his side, and he pressed his fist into his hip.

“Here.” She reached for his hand. “May I?”

James held out his trembling hand. He studied her face as she focused intently on his hand. Her fingers were ice cold against his skin. The bruising around her nose was fading to green. She gently flexed and extended each of his fingers, the joints popping under the pressure. 

“That help at all?” Natasha looked up into his face; his tightly pressed lips and unreadable eyes. 

He made a sound that was some mix of laugh and snort and clearing his throat, just a rough, abrupt expulsion of breath. “I think so. At least it’s a distraction.”

She let go of his hand, and he withdrew it slowly.

“How’s your shoulder? Have you tried the arm?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head. 

“It still hurts?”

“I’m less dangerous like this.”

“Whereas I’m actually more dangerous when I’m disarmed,” Natasha countered. 

He stared for a moment, then chuckled. “You would be.” He ran his hand over his jaw. “Would you help me with this?”

She studied his face for a moment. “As long as you don’t want Tony Stark levels of over-complicated goatee, sure.”

He followed her into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. “Why do you call me James?” 

Natasha shook a can of shaving cream. “It’s your name.”

“Steve called me Bucky.”

She applied the lather to his face with her fingertips. “You prefer that?”

He shrugged and drummed his fingers against his knee. “Yeah, I do.”

“Mmm.” She rinsed her hands and picked up the razor. “Okay, Bucky, no more moving.”

He sat very still, breathing slowly through his nose. He barely felt the blade. Her face was intensely focused, her free hand gently repositioning his head for better light and access. She turned to rinse the razor, and his gaze landed on her backside. He looked away quickly. As she returned her attention to him, he was too aware of the cramped quarters, the way she straddled his knee because there was nowhere else in the small bathroom to stand

She tossed him a hand towel while she rinsed the razor and drained the sink.

“Thanks,” he remarked. “You’re good at this. Have you done it before?”

“A couple times, when Coulson was recovering from a broken arm.” She set the razor on a rack and wiped out the sink. 

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. “Who’s Coulson?”

She caught his gaze in the tarnished mirror. “A friend. He was killed a few years back.”

Bucky deflated. “I’m sorry.”

Natasha poured a little aftershave into her palm and rubbed her hands together. “Me too.” 

He closed his eyes as she caressed his face. He opened his eyes to find her looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read. 

“I’m going to shower, if you don’t mind.”

“Right.” He stood quickly, bumping against her. “Sorry.” 

***

He stood over the stove and watched as the albumin turned opaque and solidified, encircling the bright, round yolk. He shimmied a spatula under the edge of the egg and flipped with a quick, smooth motion. 

Over the sound of running water, he could hear Natasha’s voice. A faint, pretty melody whose words he couldn’t quite make out. Same song every time. He hummed along a little as he slid the egg onto a plate. It nudged up against the edge of his toast. He set the plate on the table and licked a dab of rust-colored jam off the crust. 

The water stopped running while he was eating his breakfast. By the time Natasha came into the kitchen — her hair still damp and dripping dark speckles on the shoulders of her shirt — he’d finished the food and was savoring his coffee. 

“I could make you something. I had toast and an egg,” he offered.

She poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’ll get it. Top off?” She held up the pot. 

James pulled the mug to his chest protectively. “You’ll upset the delicate balance.”

Natasha opened the fridge and glanced inside. “You go through more cream than a crazy cat lady.”

He shrugged. “I’m going out later today, I’ll pick some up.”

“It’s supposed to rain.” She set an egg on the counter.

“I won’t melt.” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘bring an umbrella’.” 

***  
He came home soaked, with a carton of cream and a small shopping bag. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

Natasha turned towards him, already smiling. “Laugh at what?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said as he put the cream into the fridge. “About the words. Maybe there’s a way to make it so they don’t work anymore.”

Her expression turned serious. “Bucky?”

“I’ve been doing some research, and I want you to try saying them -- maybe just one at first -- while I’m restrained.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the red bag. “I picked these up today.”

“May I?” She held out her hand. He passed her the handcuffs. 

“So it’s like a desensitization thing,” he rambled. “And I know it took literal years for them to get to the point where the words worked but--”

She examined cuffs, half-listening, and a slight furrow appeared between her brows. “Where did you get these?”

His cheeks reddened and he looked at the ceiling. “A sex shop. They’re sex cuffs. Can we move on please?”

She pressed her lips together tightly, barely suppressing a smile. 

“What?” Bucky demanded.

“That’s what you wanted me to not laugh at. Okay, I’m trying. You know I could have gotten actual restraints with maybe three days of notice?”

He rolled his eyes. “Good to know three days ago. I wanted to start as soon as possible. You just have to say one word. Are you in or not?”

“You know what? This is better. There’s an emergency release on these, I’m more comfortable with that.” She handed them back. “I’ve helped set up a trigger before. As a post-hypnotic suggestion. Never tried to undo one.”

“Principle’s the same, right?

She nodded. “I guess. After dinner?”

“Yeah. You should definitely buy me dinner before handcuffing me to a kitchen chair.”

Her cheeks puffed.

“You can laugh at that, that was a joke.” 

***  
His wrist jerked inside the cuff. He inhaled slowly. 

“This isn’t good.” She frowned. 

“It’s just nerves.” He tilted his head from one side to the other rapidly to crack his neck. “Say it.”

Natasha shook her head and reached for the shackle. 

“Don’t.” He twisted in the chair.

“James.” She put her hand on his forearm. “Bucky.”

“Leave the cuffs on.” 

“They always did this with you tied to a chair, tying you to a chair isn’t helping,” she argued.

“If I’m not restrained, I’ll hurt you. Again.” 

“You’re too tense. It isn’t going to work.” Natasha knelt next to the chair and unlatched the side of the handcuffs that was wrapped around the wooden leg of the chair. “Not like this.”

“What are you doing?”

She cinched the cuff tight around her wrist. 

Bucky shook his head. “No, no, no. That’s a bad idea. Nat, listen—”

“Bucky.” Her tone was sharp enough to silence him. She tapped his hand until he opened it, and then she entwined her fingers with his. “It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I’m not. Желание.”

He shuddered and drew a sharp hissing breath through his clenched teeth. His eyes widened. She held his gaze. He blinked hard and squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed back.

His breathing steadied. His jaw unclenched.

“Желание.”

He flinched again, but less obviously.

“You have all the restraint you need.”

He looked down at the handcuffs and their interlaced fingers. 

“That’s a hell of a gamble.”

Natasha leaned in close, and he felt her breath against his neck. “Желание.” A whisper, nearly inaudible. He remained still. 

***

“You need anything while I’m out?”

Natasha looked up from her book. “You’ve got the arm on.”

Bucky shrugged and immediately winced. “It’s still a little painful.”

Natasha set the book aside and stood. “Where does it hurt?” 

“Across my back, mostly.”

“Can I see?”

He squatted to give her a better vantage, and she pulled the neckline of his t-shirt down. He made an exaggerated gagging sound.

“Sorry.” She let go of the collar of the shirt. “Here, let me—“ She slipped her hands under his shirt, pulling the hem up. 

He drew a sharp breath. 

“New scar tissue.” Her fingertips ghosted over the freshly healed wounds. “But it looks like everything’s healed, at least on the outside. If it hurts, maybe give it more time?”

“I wasn’t planning to wear it long,” he replied. “Just while I was running errands. For carrying things.”

She smoothed down the back of his t-shirt. “What are you going out for?”

“Um.” He shifted his weight and looked down at the floor. “Just some stuff.”

She cocked one eyebrow at him. 

“The balcony gets really good light, and I saw that you brought the seeds. I thought maybe I could get some planters and some dirt and….” He trailed off.

“I was afraid it was another trip to the sex shop. Plants are a great idea.” She grinned. “Mind if I tag along? I can carry stuff.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

***  
By the time they finished bringing in pots and planters and bags upon bags of soil and compost and other amendments, Bucky was grimacing with every movement. “You might have been right.” 

“I usually am,” Natasha replied. She stood beside him at the kitchen sink, washing her hands.

“It hurts a lot.” He dried his hands and rubbed the top of his shoulder. 

She took the dish towel from him. “Can I take a look?”

He carefully peeled off his shirt and sat. “Please.” He released the arm and set it on the table, pillowed on his shirt. 

“Can you describe the pain?” 

“It’s like muscle soreness but worse. Deeper. Almost like it’s hot where the muscles connect to the shoulder blade. And then just regular muscle fatigue in my back and neck.”

“Mm.” She stood over him and gently pressed with the pads of her fingers. “Here?” 

“Even deeper.” He closed his eyes, relaxing into her touch. He tipped his head to the right. 

Natasha applied more pressure. 

He moaned quietly. 

“Does that hurt?”

“No,” he said huskily. 

She methodically manipulated the muscles, pressing and kneading. She used her knuckles to pinpoint the knots in his muscles. He leaned forward, bracing himself against the table. Her hands were warm. 

He opened his eyes and slowly straightened his posture. “How did you know that they tied me to a chair?”

Her hands dropped away from his shoulder.

He twisted to look into her panic-stricken face. “Natasha?”

“I-- I was there,” she whispered.

“I don’t understand.” The words had no sooner left his mouth when Bucky realized how untrue they were. Everything fell into place. 

“Before SHIELD, I worked for a group called the Red Room.”

_Breathe_

_I’m Natalya_

“I don’t know how they were connected to Hydra. I never looked too closely.” Her voice cracked. 

If it looks like she’ll fail, just kill her.

_Breathe_

_Hone her to the razor’s edge_

“But you were there too.”

_Do you have a name?_

_Hair the color of autumn._

_Breathe._

“We,” she swallowed hard, “worked together.”

_Do you even feel it?_

_James._

“Bucky?” 

His thousand yard stare refocused on her. “Natalya.”

She nodded. 

“I was trying to remember the last time --”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I left. I left you.” 

He reached for her. “--anyone touched me like that. It was you. And the time before that. And the time before that. It was you. You always called me James.”

“It’s your name.” She stepped back, out of reach. “I tried to save you. I didn’t want to leave without you.” 

“I believe you. I forgive you.”

She froze. 

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to his chest. “I missed you. I didn’t know what I was missing, but it was you,” he said softly.

She drew in on herself, shrinking in his embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” 

Natasha shuddered. “I figured you’d hate me.”

He shook his head. “I--”

“I hated me.”

“You let me remember how it felt to be human. You did save me, at least you did your best.” 

“It wasn’t enough,” she said, but she relaxed and leaned into him. 

“If we want to talk about hating each other, should I mention that I shot you?”

“Twice, but who’s counting?” A chuckle bubbled out with the words, hollow and fragile.

He blinked. “That was you in Odessa. I thought maybe it was one of my nightmares.”

“I never wanted to be one of your nightmares.” She cleared her throat again. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Uh, better. Though, if you wanted to keep rubbing it, I wouldn’t complain.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More memories, new beginnings, Chekov's Bad Guy, and Bucky gets to cash in his Bad Ass points.

Bucky watched Natasha scoop a mixture of dirt and various soil amendments into a planter. “Could you add more of the pearlite? This one says it wants ‘well-drained’ soil.” He shook the envelope gently, listening to the rattle of seeds inside.

“Um.” She looked at the assortment of bags. 

“Here.” He set the seed packet down and grabbed the bag, dragging it closer to her.

“Thanks.” She had dirt up to her biceps as she leaned over the largest of the planters. She dug a pair of deep rivets in the soil already in the container and poured in more pearlite, using her hands to mix it in. “Good?”

“I’m glad you got out,” he said softly.

Her eyebrows pinched together.

“Of the Red Room,” Bucky clarified. “I don’t remember everything, which is probably a blessing, but I know you weren’t safe there. No one was. I’m glad you made it out.”

“I think this one’s ready. You plant, I’ll get started on the next pot.”

“So you’re just going to change the subject if it’s uncomfortable?”

She brushed dirt off her hands and forearms. “It usually works really well.” She half shrugged. “Technically, you’re the one who changed the subject. We were talking about the plants. You brought up other things. I spent years trying to convince SHIELD to mount a rescue. In retrospect, it makes sense why they never did.”

“How did you get out?”

Natasha smiled. “You met Clint Barton.”

“The guy with the arrows,” Bucky replied. 

“That’s him. He refused to let me die there. So here I am.”

He plopped on the ground next to the pot. “I guess I owe him one.” He began poking holes into the surface of the dirt with his fingertip.

Natasha brought the next empty pot closer and set to work filling it.

***

“This is better than when I had to make it at the Red Room.”

“Yeah?” Bucky sprinkled flour over the wet dough as she mixed. 

“For one thing, I didn’t have to get up at four am.” 

He blinked rapidly. “You were up at four am. I had a nightmare.”

She shrugged and nudged him with her hip. “More flour. For another thing, Madame B isn’t standing in the corner with her coffee in one hand and her cane in the other.”

“That’s too much!” The remaining flour spilled out of his measuring cup and into the bowl. He frowned deeply. 

“It’s fine.” She grabbed a handful of the flour off the top and tossed it over the countertop.

“Wasn’t she the dance instructor? I don’t remember her using a cane.”

“Not to walk with.” 

He returned to the bag, scooping up a bit more flour to spread over the countertop. “Then what for?”

“Woosh.” Natasha mimed swinging a stick. She pulled the lump of dough out of the mixing bowl and rolled it over the floured counter. 

“Oh.”

“It was mostly for intimidation. She almost never hit us.”

He put his hand between hers, kneading in time with her. “Almost isn’t really as reassuring as you think it is.”

“James, I had wo-- that’s actually not reassuring either,” she cut herself off. 

“You had worse things happen than being hit with a cane?” he guessed.

She focused on kneading the dough, and began humming a tune instead of answering.

“What is that?”

She stopped. “It’s from Tangled. Cooper was obsessed with that movie when it came out. The songs are pretty catchy.”

“We should watch it while the dough is rising,” Bucky suggested. 

“It’s a kids’ movie.”

He shrugged. “Then maybe it won’t give me nightmares.”

***  
“Nat.” Bucky knocked vigorously on her door. “Natasha!”

She opened the door with a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Not wrong.” He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. “We have seedlings.”

A smile broke across her face. “Yeah?”

“Come see!” 

She followed him out to the balcony. Thin, pale green tendrils rose out of the dark soil.

“You know there’s a museum in Vaduz. They’ve got a whole exhibit about plants.”

Bucky‘s eyes lit up. “Could we go? I figured sight-seeing didn’t qualify as low-profile.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“What? You’re looking at me weird.” He shifted his weight.

“You never used to smile this much.”

***  
“Are you in a safe place?”

“Safe enough,” Natasha answered. If she was surprised to hear from Nakia, her tone didn’t reveal it. “What about you?”

“You got Barnes out just in time.”

“What’s going on there?” Her brow furrowed in concern. She stepped out onto the balcony, pulling the door closed behind her. 

“Well, by ‘there’, do you mean Wakanda, where they’re trying to use the accords to justify seizing our weapons and technology, and T’Challa’s got about fifteen lawyers drafting a web of red tape to stop them?” Nakia asked. “Or do you mean my new -- undisclosed -- location, where I’m stuck protecting a fifteen-year-old who’s smarter than everyone and wants everyone to know it.” 

Natasha grimaced. “So it’s bad.”

Nakia snorted. “Wherever you are, don’t get too comfortable, and I need to send you something. Just in case.”

“What is it?”

“Instructions for disabling the tracking device she put in his arm.”

Natasha looked through the glass to where James stood in the kitchen, pretending not to watch her. “I’ll keep an out for those.” 

They said a brief goodbye, and Natasha stepped back into the apartment.

“More bad news?” Bucky guessed. 

“Nothing that’s any worse than anything else. You need help? Those sandwiches aren’t going to make themselves.”  
***

They spent the day as tourists, visiting museums and cathedrals. It was well after dark by the time they made the drive home. 

Home. 

“What was your favorite part?” Natasha asked. 

“How could I possibly choose? The Kunstmuseum, maybe?” He grinned. “That statue that looked like a giant caterpillar. No, no, it was the garden outside the Florin cathedral. Small, but really beautiful. Or the colors in the stained glass…. I can’t actually remember the last time I was in a church.”

Natasha unlocked the door. “Last time I was in a church was a funeral.”

He chuckled as they went inside. “I remember an abandoned church. There was a terrible storm, I —“ he looked at her and tipped his head to the side. “We had to take shelter. We joked about starting a fire in the nave. Talked about running away.”

“We should’ve,” Natasha said wistfully.

“It was so cold, and we were soaked from the rain.” His cheeks reddened. 

“We took our clothes off so we wouldn’t freeze,” she replied with a devious smile.

“We — you remember.”

She smiled, ducking her head. “Of course I remember. It was the first time I—“ She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and stammered slightly. "uh, well--"

“Shit,” he whispered. “If I’d known it was your first time, I would’ve tried to make it special.”

“It was special.” She lightly touched his shoulder and looked back up at him. 

He leaned closer, his heart pounding. She raised her chin slightly.

The sound of gunshots burst through the air, shattering the windows. Bucky raced into his room. 

He threw aside the rug and pried up the loose board with his fingers. Bucky slammed the arm into the magnetized socket as he barreled through the living room. Natasha stood near the shattered doors to the balcony and fired down onto the street. He leapt past her and off the balcony. He rolled as he landed. 

A fresh skid of rubber on the road led to a smoking car; the hood crumpled against a street lamp. A spray of blood ran down the inside of the shattered windshield. The driver slumped over the wheel. The passenger door hung open. 

He glanced into the car and dropped to a crouch. Moonlight glinted off the metal as he stretched out his fingers, framing a footprint glistening on the pavement. He touched it lightly, rubbed his dampened fingers together. Blood. He craned his neck to look back at the apartment. 

A huge figure approached; it didn’t run like a human. He grabbed a pistol off the floor of the car, and barely managed to dodge the incoming fist. He hit back.

It felt like punching a wall; he was grateful the vibranium dulled the impact. “Shit.”

It grabbed hold of him. A massive hand closed around Bucky’s throat and hoisted him into the air. He clawed at the fingers. His legs swung wildly, feet connecting with a creature that didn’t seem to notice. He brought the gun up and fired into the monster’s face. It snarled and shook its head.

Bucky’s eyes widened. He was a good twelve feet above the ground and suddenly the ground was coming fast. He slammed into the cobblestones and rolled to the side as his foe brought its foot down. 

_They call him Abomination._

He scrambled to his feet. It was fast for something so big. It was all Bucky could do to keep from getting turned to pulp. Even the bullets had no effect. 

Windows lit up as the ruckus of the fight began to attract attention. He managed to get out of reach, but Abomination simply picked up a motorcycle and hurled it at him. He cringed as it smashed through a window. 

A shrill whistle split the air, and Abomination swiveled towards the sound. With one powerful leap, it landed on the balcony of their apartment, the stone giving way beneath its weight. Abomination vanished into the apartment as the balcony hit the street below. 

Bucky panted, and his gaze fell on a shattered planter, tiny sprouts peeking out from among the debris. 

A gunshot brought him back to the present. Natasha. That thing was inside with Natasha. Bucky charged into the building, taking the stairs two at a time. Down the hallway. Past three men who may or may not have been alive. Through the open door. 

Abomination had pinned Natasha against the ceiling, holding her up with one hand. 

“Hey.”

They both looked towards him. Natasha shook her head slightly. 

Bucky opened his hand and let the gun fall to the floor. 

“If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already,” he said. “You want me alive? Come get me.”

“He wanted you alive.” Abomination gestured behind Bucky. 

He slowly turned, and his eyes widened. “You’re dead,” he whispered. 

“You really thought a single bullet could kill me?” the soldier replied. “Who is she?”

“Romanoff.” Abomination’s voice rumbled like a peal of thunder. “Banner’s girl.”

He put his hand under Bucky’s jaw and leaned in. Eye to eye. “And who is she to you?”

“A c-colleague.” 

He laughed. “You haven’t gotten any better at lying.”

“She works with--” Bucky grimaced, “Rogers.” Steve’s role in everything was no secret. “That’s all, Josef. That’s who she is. A friend of a friend.” 

Josef released his face and took a step back. “A friend of a friend?” he echoed.

“Probably a difficult concept for you, since you don’t have any friends.”

“You think you’re cute?” Josef growled. 

“I’m adorable.” Bluff and bravado kept Josef’s attention on him.

“So she doesn’t matter to you?”

Bucky shrugged in a way he hoped looked nonchalant. Josef’s eyes narrowed. He nodded subtly. A flash of movement in his peripheral vision made Bucky turn his head. Just in time to see Abomination leap out the opening in the wall. 

He took two steps, then something struck him in the middle of the back. Pain hit like a bolt of lightning. Darkness followed.   
***  
Bucky woke up in a box smaller than a coffin, staring through a mesh of thick metal wires. He would’ve bet an arm it was solid metal on the other five sides. 

His wrists were bound to the walls of the cage. It offered no wiggle room, the mesh inches from his nose, the walls pressed against his shoulders. 

The smell of cigarette smoke preceded Josef’s voice. “We’re like brothers, you and me.”

There was a pause, and smoke wafted across from Bucky’s left. “I’ve come to take you home.”

A shadow fell over Bucky.

“What about the UN? You were working for the--”

“I’m not working for anyone!” He kicked the side of the cage, making it shudder. “Not anymore. I work for me now.”

“Got it,” Bucky said quickly. “I understand.”

Josef leaned closer. “Not yet. But you will.” He poked the smoldering stub of his cigarette through the mesh. Bucky pressed against the back of the cage. He stepped on the butt when it landed. 

“And the big guy?” Bucky asked.

“Blonsky? He wanted the girl. You should thank me. She’d’ve broken your heart. Her boyfriend’d’ve broken your neck.”

“What do you want with me?” He squirmed.

“I told you.” Josef dug out another cigarette and patted his pockets for a lighter. “If you were listening.”

“Yeah. You’re taking me home. Why?”

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “The others didn’t survive.” He shook his head. “The serum is imperfect.”

“You think somehow I’m going to help you perfect it?”

Josef laughed harshly. “You’re even more flawed than I. No. You absolute moron. There has been only one truly successful super soldier. Erskine’s second attempt.”

“Steve.”

“And when he comes to rescue you,” a grin stretched slowly over his face, “I will dissect him, and from the pieces, I will build greatness.”

Bucky snorted. “Captain America’s going to kick your ass.”

Josef whipped around, his hands slammed against on the mesh, a snarl replacing the grin.

“I’ve fought him and I’ve fought you.” Bucky smiled and shook his head slightly. “I’d sell tickets but you won’t last long enough for folks to get their money’s worth.”

Keys rattled. Josef’s hands shook with rage as he struggled to unlock the cage. He flung open the mesh door. 

As soon as the door opened, Bucky pressed his elbow against the corner of the cage and bent his left arm. The entire cuff broke loose. 

Josef clawed at Bucky and wrapped both hands around his neck. Bucky grabbed the keys off his belt, wrapped his fist around them, and threw a punch. 

He connected with Josef’s mouth, and the soldier staggered back. 

“You think I’m a moron?” Bucky quickly unlocked the cuff on his right wrist. “You can’t even beat me.”

Josef spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. It made a ‘tink’ sound.

“Ooh, was that tooth?” Bucky mocked. He laced his fingers into the wire mesh. When Josef charged, Bucky slammed the door into him. He held him with his left hand and hit him with the cage door again and again, until Josef dropped the knife. 

He stepped out of the cage and pivoted quickly, slamming Josef into his spot. He wrapped his hand around his throat and began to squeeze. “Now. Where is Blonsky taking my girl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I am fully aware that the "about to kiss but then they get interrupted" scene is a massive cliché. I don't care. I LOVE it.   
> 2\. I'm pretty sure Natasha would fully kick Bucky's ass for referring to her as "his girl" and Bucky knows it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha escapes from Abomination and reunites with Bucky.

Natasha didn’t waste energy struggling. She spread her fingers as wide as possible while Blonsky zip-tied her wrists behind her back. Once her hands were secure, he bound her ankles as well. 

“If you try to escape, I’ll break both your legs,” he explained in a conversational tone.

She glared at him. 

“When was the last time you spoke to Dr. Banner?” 

“Two years ago. He disappeared after the mess in Sokovia.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

Blonsky grunted. “And how long were you two together?”

“We worked together,” she emphasized the word ‘work’, “Off and on, starting with the battle of Manhattan.”

He slapped her sharply, more noise than power. “How long were you together?”

“We weren’t together!” She glared at him. “Not like that. He wasn’t interested.” 

“I hope for your sake he’s interested now.” Abomination settled in the truck, stretching out his legs. 

They rode in silence for what Natasha estimated to be five hours or possibly eternity. When he moved forward, she tried to scoot away. He rapped on the back of the truck’s cab. The vehicle rumbled to a stop. He slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hopped out of the truck. 

It was still dark, and the streets were deserted. The signs were in German. He carried her into a butcher shop. He slipped a metal hook between her wrists, weaving it through the zip ties. He shortened the chain, notch by notch, raising the hook. Natasha leaned forward as her wrists rose behind her. When her feet barely touched the floor and she thought her shoulders might dislocate, he stopped. 

Blonsky tipped over a large steel table and wrenched off one of the legs. He threaded a zip tie through one of the holes used for adjusting the height of the leg and secured it to Natasha’s ankle. He cut through the ties already around her ankles, pulled her other leg to the opposite end of the bar, and bent and twisted the metal until it wrapped around her foot and ankle. The weight added strain to her shoulders, and her legs being apart instead of together cost her a precious bit of height. 

He worked unhurriedly, setting up additional lighting and a tripod. He placed a cell phone, re-configured the tripod and lights, and checked the screen. He lowered the hook an inch.

Relief washed over Natasha as her feet came into solid contact with the floor. 

“Piss me off, I’ll raise it again.” He stepped in front of the camera. “Banner, I’m calling you out. You have twenty-four hours to contact me.”

He walked back to the phone and played the video. His expression clouded over. He grabbed Natasha by the jaw and squeezed. “Are you trying to signal him not to rescue you?”

She swallowed, and her eyes widened. 

His grip tightened. “Stop fucking around. I will break your jaw. I will hang you over the meat grinder and turn it on. I don’t need you alive. I need Banner to think you’re alive. There will be pieces of your body that are never found. Understand?” He let go. 

Natasha nodded mutely. 

“Let’s do another take.”

***

Tony inhaled slowly. The phone rang. 

“Mister Stark,” Ross answered.

“Your dog got out.” Cold anger formed the foundation for his tone.

“I let him out,” Ross replied with a light chuckle.

“Are you crazy? Have you seen the video?” Tony shook his head. “It’s gone beyond viral, I can’t imagine you haven’t.”

“You seemed uninterested in locating Dr Banner. I recruited someone who was very interested.”

Tony grimaced. Before he spoke, he made sure he had full control of his tone and volume. “Agent Romanoff was supposed to brought before a tribunal--”

“I have bigger fish to fry, Stark,” Ross snapped. 

Tony snapped back. “Maybe I should let Blonsky know that there’s a better bait for that particular fish.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ross grumbled.

“Come on, you know he still carries a torch for your daughter.”

There was a low hum on the line, not quite static. Probably the call being recorded. Tony glanced at the screen to make sure Ross hadn’t hung up on him.

“You wouldn’t.” Ross’s voice lacked conviction. “You wouldn’t put an innocent woman in danger.”

“I’m not leaving Romanoff with him.” Tony’s words were firm. 

“The UN won’t--”

“He sent me another video. The director’s cut. If you’re telling me that what he’s doing is sanctioned, people should see it.”

Ross was silent.

Tony pushed on. “He’s already unpopular, trashed a small town in Liechtenstein. And everybody likes Liechtenstein. It’s quaint, it’s wholesome, it’s fun to say. After what happened in Harlem--”

“That was Banner’s fault and everyone knows it.”

“Everyone sees a monster when they look at Abomination. So call me when you need someone to put a muzzle on him.” Tony hung up. 

***

Bucky kept his head down so the brim of his hat would shield him from view. Josef had said Frankfurt. In the background of the video, he picked out a meat grinder, what looked like a band saw, and a collection of knives and hatchets hanging on the wall. He figured he was looking for a butcher or a meat processing shop; in a city best known for sausages, that left him with about thirty possible locations. 

He sat very quietly, with a cup of black coffee he wasn’t drinking, and listened to the passers-by. He quickly eliminated the popular shops; Blonsky would want peace. No interruptions.

He watched the video again. The way she trembled. How she wouldn’t look directly into the camera, even when Abomination pulled her hair to bring her face up.

“You have twenty-two hours remaining. We look forward to seeing you.” 

Bucky switched to the other video. Shaky and ill-lit. Hulk versus Abomination in Harlem. Hulk had won that fight. Choked Abomination out. It needed oxygen. It had weaknesses. 

***  
“Do I want to ask?” 

Tony set the gauntlet on the workbench and turned his back to it. “No, you do not.”

“You got a suit for me?”

He looked at Rhodey. “This is--”

“I owe her one too.”

Tony sighed and leaned against the edge of the bench. “I’m not going.”

“You told Ross--”

“To call me. I signed the Accords. If I go against them now, it was all for nothing. Everything was for nothing. I asked for accountability. I wanted accountability.”

“Accountability for everyone,” Rhodey argued. “For Secretary Ross, for Emil Blonsky, not just for us.”

“Checks and balances. I checked Ross pretty hard.”

“You think that’ll be enough?”

“I wish I could get a hold of Bruce.”

***

Natasha’s fingers had gone numb. She glanced at the door. She took a deep breath. 

She flexed the muscles in her back and swung her legs up, flipping forward. Suspended upside down, she exhaled sharply and yanked. The zip ties on her wrists snapped and she landed on the floor of the cooler. 

She lay still for a moment. “Ow.” 

She awkwardly dragged herself to the wall and grabbed the lowest knife. After cutting through the zip ties on her right ankle, she stood. She hobbled to the winch and unthreaded the chain from its pulley. She took up position next to the door and carefully measured a length of chain between her hands. 

“Princess Leia, this one’s for you.”

It wasn’t Abomination that walked through the door, but a black suit of armor that was clearly one of Tony’s designs. The face plate slid up.

Natasha sagged in relief. “Happy.” She threw her arms around him and laid her cheek against the armored chest. 

“I’m not here to rescue you.”

She moved back and frowned.

He glanced at the chain in her hand. “I’m here to bring Abomination in. You just coincidentally managed to escape while I was busy with that. Looks like you’re way ahead of me.”

Natasha gave a weary nod. “Where is he?”

“Across the street. Figured I’d sneak in and make sure you were good to make a break for it before I confronted him.” Happy’s brow furrowed. “Are you good? Oh, let me just--” he knelt and aimed the repulsor at the table leg still wrapped around her ankle. A few short blasts weakened the metal enough for him to remove it. “There we go. You good?”

Natasha flexed her ankle. “I’m good.”

“You look a little worse for wear,” he commented gently.

“It’s been a long day.”

The faceplate snapped down as a crash rattled the front of the building. “Well, that’s not good.” Happy ran towards the sound. 

Abomination flipped Bucky over his shoulder and slammed him to the floor. “You again?”

Bucky hopped to his feet and decked Abomination. “Me again.” He gritted his teeth as the impact rattled his fillings. 

Happy fired a repulsor at each of them. “Me too.”

They fell to opposite sides of the shop and stared at him. Abomination cocked his head like a confused dog. “You don’t sound like Stark.”

“You’re off this assignment, Blonsky. Report back to Secretary Ross.”

Bucky inched away. 

“I don’t answer to you, whoever the hell you are,” Abomination snarled. 

“I am an authorized enforcer of the Sokovia Accords--”

Bucky saw Natasha and cut his eyes towards the door. She nodded and pointed at the east wall. She slipped out the staff entrance in back and headed to the east side of the building. She glanced over her shoulder at the shop. Bucky pulled up at the end of the alley astride a motorcycle.

“Better than a knight on a white horse,” Natasha murmured. She climbed on behind him.

“I’m not sure where to go.”

“I’m not sure where I am,” she countered.

***  
Natasha tapped his ribs, and Bucky pulled over. 

“What’s up?” He twisted around to look at her. 

“There’s a tracking device in your arm, we need to take a minute to deactivate it.” She glanced at a boarded up gas station. 

He parked the motorcycle behind the building, out of view of the road, while Natasha picked the lock. 

He tilted his head to the side as he watched her work. “Is your arm okay?”

“Hm?” She looked over her shoulder at him. 

“You’re picking the lock left handed.” His brow furrowed. “You’re right-handed.”

Natasha returned her focus to the lock. “I was hanging from my arms for like four hours. My shoulder popped when I got down, but my adrenaline was so high I just ignored it.”

“And now?”

“It’s getting harder to ignore.” The door opened a crack. “I’ve got instructions for tracking device on my phone. Shuri sent a video.”

“Your arm first, then mine.” He flexed his fingers and rubbed his hands together. “Can I touch?”

Natasha nodded. She leaned against the dusty counter and turned her face away. 

He gently pressed his fingers over and around the joint. “It isn’t fully dislocated, but it’s definitely out of place.” He closed his eyes, focusing on what he felt. 

“Can you put it back?”

“It’ll hurt,” he warned her.

“It hurts now.”

She gasped softly as her shoulder slid back into place. 

“Breathe,” he said encouragingly. He explored her shoulder with his fingers. “It feels right to me. You?”

She nodded and slowly raised her arm. “Yeah. It’s sore, but it’s better.” She pulled out her phone. “Gimme that.” She pointed to his arm.

Natasha sat on the counter. She didn’t have much for tools -- her lockpicks, a pen, and, luckily, an eyeglass screwdriver that must have rolled under the cash register at some point long past. 

***

Bucky paced, pausing every few laps to look out the window. He flinched when Natasha’s phone beeped harshly. 

She growled softly and restarted the video. Shuri’s instructions for disabling the tracking device were less than straightforward. She’d already watched them four times. 

“I know this is a really dumb thing to fixate on, especially right now, but--” Bucky tapped his foot on the floor anxiously. “Are you Banner’s girl?”

She paused the video and stared at him. “I told you, he’s an ally.”

“Does he think you’re his girl?”

“I don’t know what he thinks. I haven’t spoken to him in nearly two years.” She shrugged. “I don’t care. Couldn’t tell you the last time he crossed my mind before Blonsky name-dropped him.”

He winced at her tone. “Sore subject?”

“My relationship with him just got me abducted, assaulted, threatened, and nearly killed. Yeah, you could say I’m a little sore.”

“What was your relationship? Even Josef seemed to think you were romantically involved.”

“It started out as an assignment. I make nice with him, he makes nice with SHIELD.” She hesitated, drew a deep breath and huffed out a brief sigh. “I came to care about him,” Natasha admitted. “Looks like he didn’t feel the same way.”

“Well, then he’s an idiot.”

Natasha chuckled. “He’s literally a genius.”

“And still an idiot.” He stared at her. 

“Maybe I have a type,” she replied. “Anyway, I’ve moved on.”

Bucky laughed a little, then frowned. “Wait a minute.”

“Who’s Josef?” She rolled the tiny screwdriver between two fingers. 

He narrowed his eyes at her and sighed. “One of the other Winter Soldiers.”

Natasha frowned. “I thought Zemo killed them all?”

“Apparently one in five super soldiers can survive a gunshot to the head at point blank range.”

“I believe that,” she said softly. “Did he hurt you?”

“Nah.” Bucky shook his head. “Blonsky hurt you.”

Natasha shrugged lopsidedly. “I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t a question. Abducted, assaulted.... You’ve got one helluva shiner.”

Natasha started the video again. 

It took seven attempts, and watching all or part of the instructions more times than she could count, but she finally got the tracking device disabled. “We should get on the move again. If anyone was trying to track it, I assume it’ll lead them here.”

Bucky nodded. 

***

The motorcycle drifted towards the shoulder before Bucky jerked back to the center of the lane. They wobbled slightly at the overcorrection. 

Natasha’s grip tightened at his waist. They swerved again. She tapped his ribs. Natasha managed to tumble clear of the bike just before it went into the ditch alongside the road. 

She scrambled over to Bucky, sprawled half under the motorcycle. “Are you okay?”

He stared at her vacantly. 

“Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?”

He blinked, his eyes reflecting the blue sky above. 

Natasha cradled her arm against her ribs; she’d landed on her right shoulder. Again. “Do-do you know your name?” 

“Barnes,” he said flatly. “Jam--”

“Right, okay. Do you know where you are?” 

“-s Buchanan, Sergeant.” 

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut. Her shoulders sagged. She shuddered, listening to him recite numbers. As he started over again with his name, she opened her eyes. “Alright, Soldat. On your feet.” She grabbed the motorcycle. 

They lifted the bike together, and Natasha mounted first. “Get on behind me.” She used a firm voice, and he complied. 

She found an inn a few kilometers down the road. She slipped off, and left him -- still muttering name, rank, and serial number -- astride the motorcycle. 

He was silent when she returned.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t flinch. 

“Come on.” She took his hand and led him inside.

He looked around the room, blinking slowly. He lingered near the door.

“James?”

He didn’t acknowledge her. 

“Hey.” Her voice was a little sharp. 

He looked at her. 

Natasha sighed. “I’m exhausted, how about you?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” 

“I figured. We can rest here a while, and then we’ll get moving again.” She rubbed her shoulder.

He tilted his head, looking into the bathroom. “Is it okay if I shower?”

“Let me use the toilet real quick first.”

He sat on the end of the bed and took off his boots. They hadn’t brought clothes. They hadn’t brought anything. Everything he was wearing stank of sweat and smoke. Luckily, he favored dark colors, it made the blood less obvious. He looked up at Natasha as she emerged from the bathroom.

“Do you need medical attention? You look—“

“I’m just tired.” She sighed. “Bathroom’s open.”

The water was miraculous. It fell from heaven, sluicing over his skin. He turned it up as hot as he could stand and let it cut through the grime. After several minutes, he unwrapped the tiny bar of soap and began to scrub. He thought he heard the door open and then close, but no one tried to kill him, so he shrugged it off. He shampooed his hair twice. 

Exhaustion settled into his bones as he turned the shower off. He stepped out and grabbed a towel. A pile of neatly folded clothing sat on the bathroom floor, just inside the door. He pulled on the boxers and the t-shirt and spent entirely too much time overthinking the pants. He didn’t really want to sleep in a pair of jeans. But then, he also really didn’t want to fight someone in his boxers. He ended up putting them on; he’d slept in worse, and it’d be a shame to leave them behind if they had to run during the night. 

He turned off the bathroom light before he opened the door, hoping that Natasha was asleep. He crept over to the bed to steal a pillow. 

Natasha shuddered and sniffled. 

“Are you—?” He paused. It seemed foolish to ask if she was okay, when she clearly wasn’t and would just say that she was anyway. 

She lifted her head. The light from the parking lot snuck in around the curtains, and he could see her perfectly well. Right down the tears running down her cheeks. 

“Oh.” He hesitantly touched her shoulder. “What do you need?” 

Natasha sat up and wiggled closer. She folded herself in against his chest. “Hold me.”

He closed his arms around her. “I’ve got you.” He shifted his weight and pulled her closer. He felt a silent sob pass through her. “It’s okay.” He stroked her back. “I’ve got you.” He repeated those two phrases, again and again, like a mantra. 

He woke to sunlight stabbing him in the eyes. His arms were wrapped around a tangle of blankets and pillow. He was alone. He rolled out of bed and listened to the sound of running water. 

He knocked on the bathroom door. “Natasha?” He knocked harder. “Is it okay if I come in? I gotta pee.”

“It’s fine.”

He opened the door. He could see her, blurred by the distortion of the glass, standing with her hands braced against the wall of the shower. Her head hung forward. Water beat down against her back. He looked away. He used the toilet, didn’t flush, and washed his hands.

He closed the bathroom door quietly and laid back down on the bed. 

He almost fell back asleep.

“J-Bucky?”

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes and sat up.

“How are you?” She approached slowly.

“F-fine?”

“Do you remember how we got here?”

Heaviness settled over him. He studied her face for a moment. “No. Not really. I remember--” he trailed off. His brow furrowed in concentration. “That black eye isn’t from me, is it?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Not this time.” He sighed. “That big thing, Abomination, attacked us at the apartment.”

Natasha nodded encouragingly.

“And Josef was there? That doesn’t sound--”

“No, that’s right, actually. He took you somewhere; Blonsky took me somewhere else.”

He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I definitely remember fighting Abomination. After that, it all feels dreamlike.” He sighed. “I’m pretty sure I kicked Josef’s ass.”

Natasha smiled. “That sounds likely.”


	7. Chapter 7

64.5488583,-21.9305994

He lay on the couch with his head in her lap. 

“Желание.”

He slowly inhaled, silently counting, held it, and exhaled. He nodded. 

“Pжавый.”

He closed his eyes. A wrinkle appeared between his brows. The creases around his eyes deepened. 

She stroked his hair. “Желание. Pжавый.”

His face relaxed. 

“Печь.” 

Bucky groaned. His breath became a shallow pant. His hands clenched into fists. He curled in on himself and whined quietly. 

Natasha’s hand traveled to his back, where it traced a broad, slow circle. Gradually, he began to match his breathing to the pace of her circles. He inhaled as her hand moved up and exhaled as it moved down. 

“Рассвет.”

He exploded off the couch and whirled to face her, teeth bared. 

Natasha held up her hands. 

“Don’t.” He grabbed a glass off the coffee table and flung it. It shattered against the far wall. Ice and glass scattered across the floor.

He pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “No.” 

“Bucky.” She slowly stood up. “Bucky.”

He lowered his hands and looked from Natasha to the broken glass. 

His shoulders sagged. “God damn it,” he whispered and hurried out the door. 

Natasha followed. He took the stairs up, two or three at once. She took her time behind him.

“Bucky.”

He stood at the edge of the roof. “Leave me.”

“You threw it at the wall and not at me. I’d call that progress.” She ventured closer with measured steps.

“Progress towards what? Being an asshole?”

“Better than an assassin,” Natasha replied. “Besides, you’re only an asshole if you don’t come back in and clean up the mess.”

He chuckled harshly. “That’s a ploy to convince me not to throw myself off this roof. I could leave a worse legacy than some broken glass.”

“Or you could leave a better one. You’re a good man, or at least a man with some good in him.” She persisted. Her even pace brought her nearer. 

“You sure about that?”

“You broke your programming once.” She was close enough to touch him, to physically pull him back from the edge. “I watched you kill your handler.” 

His brow furrowed. “I couldn’t.”

“Morosov.”

He flinched at the name, scrunching his nose like he smelled something foul. He shuddered as memories broke like waves. “God.” He shook his head. “Why would you remind me of….” Natasha touched his arm, feather light. His expression softened. “Sao Paulo.”

Natasha nodded. 

“He-he was hurting you. I just wanted to stop him.”

“There’s good in you.” She laid her hand on his chest. 

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. He put his hand over hers. “Maybe.”

Natasha glanced over the edge. “It’s only four stories. You’d probably live. Come on, it’s cold out here.” She led him back inside. 

***

“You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”

“I thought that was the idea,” Bucky replied. 

He could almost hear Shuri rolling her eyes in response. “First of all, that fiasco with Blonsky was the perfect thing to get the UN to back off my brother, so good job there.”

He contemplated pointing out that his involvement had been both minimal and involuntary, but she was already moving on to her next point.

“Second, the Atlanteans have the coolest hyperbaric tech and I think it might be the missing piece I need to fix your brain. When are you coming back to Wakanda?” 

“When it’s safe.” His default answer to when anything in his life would change, especially for the better. 

“How about next week?” Shuri countered. “Igugu and Roxann are going to kid any day now.”

“Are you trying to lure me back with baby goats?”

“Why is it working?”

He chuckled softly. “Can I name one?”

Shuri tsked. “These are the royal family’s royal goats.”

He leaned against the wall and tapped his foot on the floor and sighed into the phone.

“You have to ask T’Challa.”

“I’ll think about it.”  
***

He bolted upright, ears still ringing with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. He drew a trembling breath. A dream. Just a bad dream.

He heard a soft thump as Natasha threw the pile of blankets aside. 

“I had another nightmare,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“What was it?” Her hand found his shoulder in the dark. 

Gunfire and blood. He put his hand over hers. “I shot you.”

“I’m right here, and I’m fine. No bullet holes.”

He gently squeezed her hand. “It felt real.”

Natasha wiggled up behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It wasn’t.”

“I was about to shoot Steve and you stepped in front of him.”

Natasha snorted. “He’s a super soldier with a vibranium shield, why the hell would I take a bullet for him?”

“Oh, we’re critiquing my nightmares now?”

“Well it’s very unrealistic. That’s a major plot hole, Bucky.”

He pulled her arm across his chest; she fell into him, leaning against his back. “Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” She let her head drop onto his shoulder. “I’m talking in my sleep.”

“You’re surprisingly articulate.”

Natasha began fake-snoring dramatically. 

He twisted, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her to his side. He laid down. “Is this okay? Can we sleep like this?” He adjusted his arm under her. 

“It’s okay.” Natasha rolled to her side and kicked at the tangle of blankets that had formed around her ankles. “Can I put my leg here?” She laid her top leg across his lap.

“Yeah, just knee me in the groin while you’re at it.” He teased. “Maybe put your elbow directly into my solar plexus.”

“You could just say it’s uncomfortable.” She wiggled and moved her leg away. 

“Nope.” He tightened his arm around her. “No escape.” The nightmare crowded the edges of his mind. 

“I’m not trying to escape, my arm is falling asleep.” 

“Arms are overrated,” Bucky proclaimed, but he loosened his embrace to allow her to reposition. “How’s that?” He set his hand on her shoulder as she settled in next to him. 

She wiggled closer. “Hold me a little tighter.”

He pulled her in and felt her nod against his arm.   
***

“What would you think of going back to Wakanda for a little while?” Natasha asked. She stuck her fingers into the coffee machine, trying to adjust the filter.

“You’re going to burn yourself,” Bucky replied. “Who called you?”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “Milena, why?”

It was Bucky’s turn to look confused. “Shuri wanted me to come back for some sort of bariatric thing for my brain. She--” He gently pulled Natasha’s hand away from the coffee maker and reached inside to reposition the filter himself. “I figured she asked you to talk me into it. Who’s Milena?”

“Old friend.” She crossed her arms over her chest. 

“All your old friends want you dead.”

“Not all of them.”

Bucky raised one eyebrow dubiously. 

“She asked for my help with something. It could be dangerous. Which is why I thought it might be better if you didn’t come with.” She glanced at the machine. “Coffee’s done.”

“Not the kind of dangerous where you might want some backup?” He poured two cups, his just over half full, hers nearly to the brim.

“I’ll have backup.” She took her coffee. “If Shuri thinks she can help, you should go. You’ll be safe there.”

He added cream and sugar to his cup. “Will I see you again?”

“I can’t say when.” Natasha took a sip and grimaced. “This is awful.”

“Then don’t go.”

She poured the rest of her cup into the sink. “I’ll see you again,” she promised.

“Soon?” He set his spoon at the edge of the sink and sipped his coffee. 

“As soon as I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried very hard to make this series not contradict the canon, so watch Black Widow come out and destroy everything here. I'm leaving space, narratively, to incorporate anything from that movie that I can, and of course, leaving Bucky time to hang out in Wakanda before Infinity War happens. 
> 
> I have one more BIG story planned for this little universe, and hopefully a few more little ones.


End file.
